Tai'shar Andor
by Bjorn af Aalborg
Summary: A story following the exploits of Taringail Mantear,born out of wedlock in the year 969 NE to Luc Mantear and Anvaere Damodred. This story will follow his life concurrent with the events of The Eye of the World as well as flashbacks to his youth. It's a work in progress. I'll try and add 2 (short) chapters per week. Constructive criticism or questions about the story welcome.
1. Prologue - Chapter 1

**Prologue – 968 NE**

His attention fixated on the beautiful Cairhienin noblewoman across the ballroom floor, Luc Mantear had attempted several drinks from his goblet before realizing he was out of wine. Luc pointed the goblet like a sword at the nearest serving girl and began shaking it vigorously while fixing her with his most contemptuous sneer. The girl came as close to scurrying as Cairhienin decorum allowed at a wedding. While the girl filled his goblet Luc leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "I don't want this goblet to ever be more than half empty. Keep it full and I might just fill you with a little something later." The poor girl blushed so hard Luc couldn't figure out if she was about to drag him off to a closet somewhere or pull a dagger on him. With a sharp slap to her backside he sent her on her way and was surprised by the muted, flat tone produced. Definitely not the firm flank he was used to on a Cairhienin of her age. _Must sneak sweets out of the kitchens_, Luc mused to himself.

Once again alone with his thoughts, Luc resumed his fascination with the Cairhienin noblewoman. So far she had not noticed his stare. Luc wondered what her eyes looked like. She was short, he could tell that much. Even compared to the other Cairhienin at the reception she was short and slim of waist as well. Luc liked them petite. _With hair like that I bet she has brown eyes. Dark brown eyes._ Her hair was a dark brown. Almost black if not for the way her hair shown with an almost golden hue when the light hit it, _but that might just be the torchlight,_ thought Luc. It hung in curls. Not the frizzy tight curls Luc had noticed some of the Cairhienin women wearing, but gentle ringlets that hung past her shoulders.

Luc couldn't take anymore. He had yet to meet a woman who could resist his charms when he was motivated, and this woman had him motivated. _I bet her skin is soft as silk and smells of roses._ Luc was maybe two spans away when she noticed him coming. Her large, dark eyes fixed him with a stare that could have melted steel and wilted flowers. Luc couldn't help but smile. _This one is fierce!_ Luc liked when a woman had some spirit in her, maybe even a little fight. Luc's pleased smile shifted to a cocksure grin and he put as much swagger in his step as possible while closing the last few paces. As he opened his mouth there was a moment of doubt as the young lord realized he hadn't thought up a good line, but before he could stammer out something cliché he was saved by the whip-like crack of his own name.

"Luc Mantear."

_Ouch._ The lady had a voice like birds singing in the morning, but that did little to blunt the sharpness she put into his name.

"Nothing to say for yourself I see. Every Andoran woman, from the lowliest servant to the Daughter-Heir herself has warned my sister and I about you. Your reputation precedes you, and it is not one I wish to add to."

Luc took in the set of her jaw and the press of her lips. _Stern,_ he thought, but the way her eyes were lighting up and the way her bottom lip trembled he knew she was bluffing. _She wants me._ He must have started grinning again because her expression went from 'playfully hard to get' to 'not so playfully outraged' in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, I'm joking am I? I'll have you know I could have my pick of any noble or royal heir in the Westlands. I have no need to sully my reputation on the likes of you, sir!"

Finally, Luc had something to say. "The likes of me? My lady, you know my name and much about me it would seem, but I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I know nothing of you, least of which your name."

"Wha-? You mean you came over here not even knowing who I am? Do you take me for some tavern serving wench you can bounce on your knee and steal a feel just because you wish it?"

With that the lady spun on her heel and left Luc for the company of a nearby circle of Cairhien nobles, her hips swaying in time with the music. _Have mercy._ Luc looked around for an ally. Any Cairhien he knew well enough to pose questions about a high-born woman. There were few Cairhienin nobles of an age with Luc, those younger than he would not be invited to an event of such importance. Instead Luc looked for one of the nobles he knew from the war. Not far away, surrounded by a small group of fawning ladies, stood Lord Dobraine Taborwin. Dobraine had a face like a brick wearing a long haired wig. Women would never call him handsome, but he wasn't ugly either. If not for the Cairhienin slashes of nobility across his chest Dobraine could have been mistaken for a common soldier. From the expressions of awe on their faces Luc guessed Dobraine was telling war stories, maybe even the story about the time Dobraine got the drop on Luc and his men on the fringes of the Braem Wood. Luc approached cautiously.

"…and then we chased him down the Erinin to the village of Aringill before finally letting up!" Dobraine joined the women in a round of polite laughter before spotting Luc. "Why here's the man now! Young Lord Luc, please join us. I was just telling these ladies about our battle before the peace was made."

"Not much of a battle, Lord Taborwin. You sprung an excellent ambush and had me outnumbered three to one. I'm not ashamed to say I ran to fight, and drink," he added with a wink for the ladies, "another day." Luc maneuvered his way through the crowd of noblewomen until he was close enough to address Dobraine quietly. "Lord Taborwin, I would have a word with you privately, with your permission."

"Of course, Lord Luc. We are all friends here now. What do you need of me? I hope you don't harbor any ill will for a little story telling. Those who have not seen battle are always anxious to hear stories from the war, and please, call me Dobraine."

Luc chose his next words carefully. Words in Cairhien had more power than other cities. The nobles of Cairhien played at _Daes Dae'mar_ the way other men breathed. The harder Luc tried to hide something the more likely Dobraine was to pick up on it and the more likely Dobraine was to interpret some sort of political maneuvering. "Who's that woman over there?" _Smooth, Luc. Real smooth._

Dobraine followed the line of Luc's pointed finger and smiled. "That's Anvaere Damodred. Your new brother-in-law's half-sister. No one has introduced you yet?"

"I tried to introduce myself, but apparently she was warned about me. I don't know what she could be talking about."

"I'm sure she has been warned. Some have said more Andoran women have fallen victim to your charms than have not. I dare say any noble here with a daughter of marriageable age is worried you'll ruin all their wedding plans." Luc found Dobraine's meaning hard to decipher. Even with a few cups of wine in him and celebrating a wedding the Cairhien were a reserved people. For all Luc could tell Dobraine may be expressing how ludicrous he thought that was or saying the other nobles were right to be worried.

_Anvaere Damodred,_ thought Luc. _What a prize._ Luc clasped Dobraine by the shoulder. "Thank you my friend. Perhaps we'll talk again before I return to Andor. I think I've had as much wine and dancing as I can take for the night. I shall retire to my chambers."

That night Anvaere had strange dreams. Everywhere she went a man was following her. Someone she knew but could not name. He was tall and strong for his age, with dark red hair. At first she ran from him, but no matter how hard she ran he was always there. Sometimes he was right around the next corner or standing behind the door she opened. He never seemed to run or walk. He was just there, as if out of nowhere. Sometimes she wouldn't even know he was there until he reached out a hand and brushed her hair.

Anvaere woke with sweat covering her skin and her breathing coming in rapid but deep breathes. For a moment she thought she might drift back off to sleep, but a sound outside her door caught her attention. Ever so feint she heard the sounds of footsteps easing themselves down the corridor. Slipping out from under her blankets she tiptoed to her door and placed an ear against it. The footsteps got louder and louder until they sounded as though the person was just outside her door. A sharp rap on the frame caused her breathe to catch and her heart to leap into her throat. Against her better judgment she opened the door a crack and peaked out. Standing outside her door was the man of her dreams, candle in hand. He was just as handsome as she remembered.

"Lord Luc, would you like to enter my chamber?"

The young lord smiled and replied, "Absolutely."

**Chapter 1 – 998 NE, Adar 15th**

Tarin stood upon the wall looking down on one of the palace courtyards. Below Galad and Gawyn trained with practice swords. Galad had exceeded the capabilities of his former master-at-arms years ago and Gawyn was not far behind him in talent. The two were forced to spar each other for very few swordsman in Caemlyn were able to present a challenge to either. Galad flowed from stance to stance and form to form with an easy grace. In stark contrast to the grace of Galad, Gawyn almost seemed to flail at his opponent. Indeed, Tarin guessed more than half of Gawyn's parries were the result of luck more than skill. Of course it was natural to start flailing when faced with someone of superior skill, experience, and physical prowess. Tarin fingered the shape of the heron on the hilt of his own sword. _Perhaps I should remind Galad of that fact before returning to my duties_, Tarin mused to himself. Of course if he did that Gawyn would undoubtedly want another try at Tarin. If there was one thing Tarin didn't want to experience again it was explaining to Queen Morgase why her son could barely move for the bruises on his ribs. Apparently, "it'll be good for him," was not sufficient reason to injure a prince. Tarin reached up and touched the new knot of rank on his shoulder, his third now. _Morgase is a difficult woman to understand._

Tarin caught the movement of a man approaching him along the wall, coming from the direction of the palace. Turning he watched the man. His hair was graying, almost white at the temples now. Despite his age he was still powerfully built. His stride was purposeful, and the sword at his hip seemed almost a part of him. Tarin had known the man for as long as he could remember. After Tarin's father and aunt vanished he was left with no one and became a ward of the palace. The men of the Queen's Guards had raised him, and for most Tarin's life the men of the Queen's Guards had answered to Gareth Bryne. As Bryne neared Tarin snapped to attention and offered his salute. "General, inspecting the battlements or here to spy on the boys?" he said, giving a nod to the fight below.

"Neither, Captain Taringail." Tarin rankled at the use of his proper first name. The general continued as though he had not noticed. "Have your men had many problems with the troubles in the city?"

Tarin was unsure what the General was getting at. Protesters had become common in Caemlyn's streets. Spring was late in coming and many believed the Aes Sedai were responsible. By traditions the Queen of Andor maintained an Aes Sedai advisor. Understandably some were venting their frustrations, but the Queen's Guards still commanded respect. Even those opposed to Aes Sedai in Caemlyn wouldn't dare cross the guard. "None, General. There have been some fights between Queen Morgase's supporters and the others, but nothing the Queen's Guards couldn't break up. None of my men have reported any aggression directed at them."

"That is good, Captain, but not what brings me here. I need someone I can trust." Bryne pulled a rolled parchment from pouch on his belt and handed it to Tarin. To Tarin's surprised it was sealed with the royal seal of Andor. "Do not open that here. I want you to take a troop of Queen's Guards west down the road to Whitebridge. Only take men you can trust. Two days outside Caemlyn open that parchment, memorize the orders, and burn it."

Tarin was shocked, though he kept his face calm to hide it. Secret orders and missions were not common to the Queen's Guards. This was something Tarin might expect from his Cairhienin kin, but not Gareth Bryne. He slipped the parchment under his tunic. "Understood, General. I will assemble the men and leave at first light."

* * *

Bogdan Shevkovni's head hung until his chin rested on his chest. His black hair hung in two braids, one to each side of his face. Ever so gently the Arafellin rubbed at his temples. _Had I known I'd be riding out at first light I wouldn't have finished off those last four or five ales._ His horse started to drift toward the road's edge once she realized no one was holding her reins, but Bogdan corrected the mare's path with some pressure from his calf. The horse obeyed and went back to following the track ahead. _You don't want to eat that dead grass anyway, girl. _Concern blossomed somewhere in the part of his mind that still thought like a Warder. The voice of the man he used to be spoke up¸_ spring should be here. The Dark One touches the world again and you waste your time hunting men._ "Shut up you! I don't need any of your lip!" Bogdan yelled back at the voice.

"By the Light, man. I didn't say anything," responded the rider next to Bogdan. Together the two men made up the front of a formation of 32 riders all dressed in the uniforms of Queen's Guards. An hour before dawn they had made their way two-by-two out of the Whitebridge Gate. Though they made no effort to hide, Taringail clearly did not want too many people aware of their departure. Once Bogdan might have found that odd, but he was beyond care now.

"I apologize, Captain Taringail. That was not meant for you."

"Could have fooled me. Any louder and the rear guard would be biting their tongues. How much did you drink after I left you last night?" There was no reproach in Captain Taringail's question, only concern. Probably concern that a friend would pass out, fall from his saddle, and be trampled to death by the horse behind him.

"None, Captain Taringail. I went straight to bed like a good little soldier. If you wanted me in prime condition for this endeavor you should have found me much earlier in the night."

"I wasn't sure if you were still in Caemlyn or not. I found it prudent to inform the men I was sure of before scouring the New City for one drunken Arafellin. I was surprised to find you so well into your cups. I would have thought your…" Tarin rubbed his fingers together as he searched for a polite word, "mission, would require you sober and alert."

Bogdan removed his fingers from his temples. He straightened in his saddle and fixed Taringail with a cold stare. "My mission is my business."

If Taringail was affected by the look he did not show it. Instead Taringail returned the stare with one of his own, a stare that told Bogdan just how wrong he was. When Taringail spoke it was in a quiet voice so none of the other men could hear. "You have hunted and killed Whitecloaks within the walls of my city. You forfeited your right to personal business when you brought your vendetta to Caemlyn. Count yourself lucky to be breathing. If the Queen or Gareth Bryne knew what I know your appointment with the headsman would have come and gone days ago."

Bogdan was not accustomed to being scolded by someone who was neither Aes Sedai nor Warder. He studied Taringail's face and weighed his words. There was nothing Bogdan could say. Taringail was correct. Bogdan owed Taringail his life no different than how Taringail once owed his life to Tamsin. With no response worth saying Bogdan hung his head once more. The scolding continued.

"Tamsin Sedai saved my life when anyone else would have left me for the crows. That is the only reason I didn't drag you to the dungeons myself." Taringail added in a lighter tone, "Well, that and the fact that I don't mind having fewer Whitecloaks roaming the streets of Caemlyn, but if Pedron Niall were to catch wind of your actions Caemlyn could wake one day to find itself besieged by every legion of the Children of Light." Taringail adjusted the weight of his shield before continuing. When held the massive piece of steel-plated oak would protect Taringail from his groin to the bridge of his nose. "Your actions endangered Andor, much better for us had you sought your death in the Blight like other Warders."

Bogdan broke his silence at that, and not in the whispered tone Taringail had taken. "It was neither shadowspawn nor Darkfriend that killed Tamsin. Tamsin died by the arrow of some coward Whitecloak. I will get my revenge even if I have to carve my way through the Fortress of Light all the way to Pedron Niall's chambers myself."

"And you still might," answered Taringail. "However, not until I have determined your service as a member of the Queen's Guard has ended. You owe Andor restitution for the danger you have placed Her in. Until I deem that debt repaid you are mine."

Bogdan picked at the bottom fringe of his red undercoat and frowned. "Do I have to wear the uniform? Between the red clothes and the burnished breastplate I'd be lucky to hide in a gleeman's cloak."

"You will wear it, and wear it with pride. For as long as I deem necessary."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – 969 NE, late summer**

Luc Mantear lounged in his high-backed chair, his feet propped on the desk in front of him. "More wine!" he shouted again to no one in particular. Eventually a servant would hear him and bring another carafe. If he was lucky he might get a smart servant who would bring him two. Luc held his empty goblet in front of him and feigned studying the lines of engraving and jewels. His thoughts were elsewhere. Luc Mantear was thinking of ways he might kill Taringail Damodred.

Taringail Damodred was a skilled practitioner of _Daes Dae'mar_. Only weeks after the Cairhienin had married Tigraine the man had her dancing on strings. Luc feared for Andor. _Should Mother die_ _and Taringail live it will be Cairhien that rules Andor, not my sister._ No matter how many plots Luc played out in his head he couldn't find one that avoided another war with Cairhien. Should Taringail suffer an 'accident' Luc was sure Laman would assume the truth. The little schemers in Cairhien would not be fooled easily. A knock on the door broke Luc's concentration.

"My Lord, the Queen summons you to the Blue Reception Room."

Luc gave the servant a long stare. The Blue Room was the smallest of the Royal Palace's halls. For Luc to be summoned there was an insult, and his mother knew that. "Is this some sort of a jest? I'll have your tongue if you think to fool me."

The servant gulped. "No, my lord. The Queen gave me the order directly. She waits for you now."

Luc took his time getting to his feet and even more time making his way to the Blue Room. If his mother was going to insult him, Luc was going to insult her. Luc found only his mother, Queen Mordrellen, and her Aes Sedai advisor, Gitara Moroso, sitting in front of one of the Blue Room's hearths.. The Queen had a parchment held delicately in one hand. When she saw Luc she folded the parchment and placed it in her lap.

"My son, House Damodred has sent you a fine gift today." Somewhere, Luc thought he heard a baby crying. "They say he was born to a servant some months ago. A servant who had only known the passions of one man." The crying was getting louder now. "I present you with your son." Luc spun on his heel to find a servant woman with House Damodred colors sewn onto her dress. "They named him Taringail in honor of your brother-in-law. Dalresin hopes you will do the honorable thing and see the child raised correctly. I hope you will do the smart thing and ensure this bastard never bears the name Mantear. I'll not have a low-born bastard as the future High Seat of my House."

Gitara Sedai brought her gaze from the fire to Luc. "I have Foretold this child will save Andor one day. Treat him well."

**998 NE, Adar 18****th**

Hours west of the village of Carysford, Tarin Mantear's troop rode on in silence. Everyman of the Queen's Guards was loyal to Andor and dutiful to the end, and the men Tarin had selected all respected him as a leader. However, no man of the Queen's Guards was accustomed to traveling under secret orders. Rumors had spread amongst the men the first night they made camp. Tarin had let the rumors spread. Stamping them out would have made matters worse, and a little tale telling usually kept spirits high. The Queen's Guards were not the type to assume the worst. Tarin himself was not immune to the urge to speculate. His hand slipped to the pouch at his belt where the tiny scroll bearing the royal seal rested. _Soon now,_ Tarin thought. At camp tonight we'll know why we have ridden out in haste.

At first Tarin had thought they were to escort the Ghealdanin's False Dragon through Andor. However, Gareth Bryne mentioned nothing of taking the road to Lugard. Certainly the Captain-General knew the troop would pass that road in two days ride. _What then?_ _Are we to travel to Four Kings then south to meet the Aes Sedai caravan?_ Tarin knew that didn't make any sense. The Aes Sedai would likely take the more direct route to Caemlyn and Tarin's troop would miss them if they took the longer route to the Lugard road. Tarin also weighed the possibility that they were on a mission to collect taxes from the far western fringes of Andor. As far as Tarin knew such a thing had not happened in generations. Unless Queen Morgase expected armed resistance in the lands around the Manetherendrelle they were over-manned for such an operation.

Tarin eyed the line of travelers moving east down the road. _Perhaps they are why we're here._ A Queen's Guard presence on the road would certainly reduce the number of thefts and assaults amongst the travelers, _but if that's the case why the secrecy?_ Tarin feared their purpose was much more dangerous. Perhaps Whitecloaks or supporters of the False Dragon were riding from the west to cause trouble. Perhaps Tarin should have brought more men.

A wagon caught Tarin's attention. Most of the travelers making for Caemlyn were on foot. Any merchants wanting to make money off the presentation of the False Dragon were already in the city and had stalls setup, or were heading back west with empty carts having already sold out of supplies. The driver of the wagon had the weathered look of a farmer, probably a local. Tarin assumed the lanky figure beside the driver to be the farmer's son. He assumed it was a boy based on height and build, but it was hard to tell the way the lad had his head wrapped in a scarf. The only thing Tarin could see of his face was his eyes, and not much of those. Tarin gave the farmer a friendly nod, which was returned in kind.

As the wagon passed by something compelled Tarin to look in the back. The wagon's rear was lined with hay. Another boy hunkered there, a cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders. Perhaps, boy was not the correct term. Although the person had a youthful appearance he was far too tall to be called anything less than a man. For an instant Tarin gaped. The youth had the same unruly dark hair as Tarin himself. Standing, the boy's was easily as tall as Tarin. Taller even, though not as heavily muscled. The youth's cloak shifted and he quickly pulled it closed around him but not before Tarin glimpsed the heron-marked hilt of a sword at the lad's waste. _By the Light! _Tarin felt a twisting of emotion inside him. It was like looking at a reflection of himself or a little brother. Panic almost overwhelmed him as the possibilities flashed through his head. _If this is another bastard of Luc Mantear maybe he knows where our father is!_ Shaking his head Tarin ended that train of thought. _You bull-goose fool, imagining long lost family. What do you expect? Are you going to run off together and rescue your father from the Blight? Bloody lot of good that did you last time._ Tarin heeled his horse and picked up the pace a little. _You probably imagined the whole thing_.

"Odd place to find an Aielman."

The statement caught Tarin off guard. After a few heartbeats' time he managed a reply. "What?"

Bogdan nodded toward the wagon. "I said this is an odd place to find an Aielman. The boy in the back of that wagon. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. I saw you gawking at him. Thought you were about to draw your sword and order the attack, from the look of you."

Tarin realized his palms were sweating and hastily dried them on his trousers. "I saw him, but I didn't think he was an Aielman."

"With that height and hair what else could he be?"

Tarin was relieved when Bogdan hadn't noticed the same family similarities as he. "I was far too young to fight in the Aiel War, but I did see some Aielmen up close. They all had hands and faces darkened by the sun. Most looked like an old boot."

"Aye, that's true, Captain, but I image that boy was probably some stray taken in after the war. Likely that farmer or his wife took pity on a little orphan boy not knowing he was an Aielman. Either that, or he's your long lost brother."

The statement hit Tarin like a blow to the stomach. "Why do you say that?"

"There aren't many families in Andor producing tall, red-haired sons. The boy certainly didn't look like the farmer's offspring." Bogdan gave Tarin a long measuring look. "If I have offended I apologize."

Tarin sighed. "No, Bogdan. Do not apologize. The subject of my family and parentage has always been touchy. Let's forget it. There are many strange folk travelling the roads these days."

Tarin spent the rest of the day in silence, and Bogdan never tried to break it. His thoughts were consumed by the red-haired youth in the wagon. His own reaction to the boy and Bogdan's comments were troubling. Tarin's father and aunt had disappeared before he was old enough to remember them. All his life he had been a ward of the palace. The Queen's Guard had been his father and the Queen's servants his mother. He hadn't even known he was a cousin of Gawyn and Elayne until recently, and that had been a shock for everyone.

Long into the night Tarin thought about the potential ramifications of another Mantear bastard in Andor. He lay in his tent and reexamined every detail of the day in his mind. Tarin was sure it was too much of a coincidence the youth bore heron-marked sword. As far as Tarin knew there were only a few dozen blademasters in the word. Finding another blademaster who shared such a strong resemblance to himself seemed impossible. _The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,_ Tarin tried to tell himself. It was a small comfort. Desperately Tarin wanted to take his horse and gallop east after the boy, but his mission was too important. Queen Morgase had entrusted him with a mission that could propel Andor in chaos if he failed.

Hours before, while the men set up tents around him, Tarin had pulled the scroll from his pouch. Breaking the seal, he unrolled the parchment and read the orders. The handwriting was that of Queen Morgase herself. She detailed how an unknown enemy had hired a pair of thugs to assassinate the High Seat of House Haevin. This unknown enemy had provided the would-be assassins with documents stating Queen Morgase had given the orders to kill. Probably by design the assassins had been killed by household guards while trying to infiltrate House Haevin's mansion. Fearing for their lives the Lady Catalyn Haevin and her guardian, the Lord Arendor, had fled. Queen Morgase believed they would hide in Whitebridge as House Haevin owned a manse there and had investments with local merchants.

Tarin knew the courts well enough to know this could destroy Andor as he knew it. The streets of Caemlyn were full of white-cockaded people already unhappy with Queen Morgase and her continued use of an Aes Sedai advisor. If those people were led to believe the Queen had ordered the assassination of one of the High Seats of another House it would be chaos. The resulting riot would probably kill thousands and destroy half the city. Tarin's mission was to find Lady Haevin and tell her the assassins were not actually operatives of the crown. Tarin was to protect the Lady Haevin and keep her safe, in Whitebridge, until he received orders stating otherwise.

Tarin had passed the parchment to Bogdan. The Warder had barely lifted an eyebrow at the contents before handing it back to him. "We should keep this to ourselves for now. One wrong word by any of the men could give the next assassin all the information he needs."

The parchment was safe once again, back in its pouch on Tarin's belt. Tarin hoped the document would help convince the Lady Haevin of the Queen's good intentions. From what he remembered of Catalyn he doubted it. Sleep was a long time coming, and when it did Tarin dreamed of standing back-to-back with another red-haired blademaster as they fought off wave after wave of assassins.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – 996 NE, Fall**

The Warder's skin itched. Shadowspawn were nearby. This close to the Blight that wasn't a profound revelation. Pulling his cloak tighter around him, the Warder maintained his scan of the tree line. The villagers had cut trees down for 400 paces to the north and west. Someone had had the good sense to use the lumber to build a palisade and a muddy, stake-lined moat around the north and west sides of the village. The Warder admired the villagers a little. They were stupid for living this close to the Blight, but at least they had picked a secure location to place the village. The River Mora passed south and east of the village. Knowing Shadowspawn's dislike of crossing water the location served a dual purpose. The river protected the village on two fronts and limited the directions from which an attack could come.

Tamsin Sedai and the Warder had stayed at the village all summer and planned to stay through the winter. The village had weathered several Trolloc raids already. Tamsin Sedai had her hands full healing villagers injured trying to prevent Trollocs from climbing the palisade. Her Yellow Ajah sensibilities found the task of alternating between scolding the Arafellins for their stubbornness and healing them of their wounds a fulfilling task. Bogdan found it tedious.

Bogdan knew he didn't need to warn Tamsin of the Shadowspawn. She could feel their presence just as he could. Her cavalier attitude toward the danger irked him severely. So did the feeling of smug satisfaction he felt coming from Tamsin through their bond. She knew he disliked the situation, and she loved every second he spent irritated. The Warder's sharp eyes picked out movement in the tree line. The Warder didn't move. He waited for a villager to pass by. The unsuspecting victim was a boy of around 11-years of age. The Warder caught the boy by the arm in a grip like iron. The lad jumped like a spooked rabbit and his eyes as big as tea cups. Bogdan knew the boy hadn't seen him, not with his Warder's cloak. It was a mean trick but a Warder had few opportunities for entertainment.

"Boy, go tell your village leaders the Trollocs prepare another charge. I want archers at the palisades before I find you again." The Warder let loose the boy's arm. The Warder wasn't sure but he thought the boy may have given him a small nod before running off. Bogdan sensed Tamsin's frustration at his own mirth. Thank the Light for small victories.

The villagers quickly formed ranks of archers behind the palisade. A rank of spearman stood behind the archers, ready to step and repel the Trollocs that reached the palisade. Not for the first time the Warder wondered where their reinforcements were. He had sent riders to Shol Arbela periodically for weeks with no response. Either the riders weren't getting past the Trollocs or this was much worse than simple raid. After months of skirmishes Bogdan was starting to lean toward the latter. He walked along the ranks of villagers, finding them anxious but confident. Though the Trolloc numbers had steadily increased the villagers had held out. They knew they were getting the better of this fight. There was not a soldier among them, but every villager was a Borderlander at heart. Here and there Bogdan found a youth more nervous than the rest, bow held in a white knuckled hand. The Warder did what he could to shore up their spirit. A firm hand on a shoulder and light hearted comment here and there could make all the difference in battle.

Bogdan had nearly completed his third circuit of the ranks when the dissonant cries of Trolloc war horns split the air, the sound causing Bogdan's teeth to grind. Myrddraal on black horses trotted out of the tree line, stopping short of the villager's bow range. Five Myrddraal. Bogdan's insides began to knot. There could be a thousand Trollocs hidden in the forest, maybe more. Too many for the villagers to handle. The Warder had never heard of a force this large outside the Blight. _Light help us._

The charge came on the heels of a shouted order by one of the Myrddraal. Arrows loosed immediately and lightening flashed. Trollocs were fast. The lead ranks of the Shadowspawn ran headlong into the first volley. The Trollocs that fell or slowed were trampled by those behind. Two more volleys slammed into the Trollocs before the creatures hurled themselves into the moat. Soon the muddy ditch was filled with Trollocs thrashing on the spikes that pierced their bodies, but still the Trollocs came. The horde slammed against the palisade, shaking the ground. Chips flew amidst the sounds of splintering wood as Trolloc axes attacked the palisade. Villagers rushed to fit spears, forks, and blades through gaps in the palisade to strike at the wall of black chainmail beyond.

Screams and howls erupted from the Trolloc ranks. The mass of Trollocs at the palisade suddenly seemed less solid. Needing a better view of the battlefield Bogdan made for the nearest building and was pleased to find archers on the roof. A helping hand and a little scrambling put the Warder in position to see the most spectacular sight. Nearly a quarter of the Trollocs at the palisade were on the ground convulsing. Beyond one Myrddraal thrashed upon the ground, a lance protruding from its chest. The headless body of another Myrddraal bounced behind its fleeing horse, the Halfman's armored boot caught in a stirrup. The three remaining Myrddraal were attempting to engage a lone rider whose horse deftly maneuvered out of sword range anytime more than one Myrddraal got close. The rider was armored in a burnished breastplate and steel-barred helmet over a red uniform. _An Andoran? What in the Light is the bloody Queen's Guard doing in Arafel?_

Bogdan couldn't believe his eyes. The Andoran was a large man with long arms. He used the nimbleness of his horse and his reach against the Myrddraal, staying out of reach of the Halfmen's black blades while making quick cuts and thrusts to Myrddraal and horse alike. One of the Myrddraal charged in and attempted a killing blow with a vicious overhand slash. The Andoran's horse took one quick step toward the Myrddraal and with a flick of his wrist the man took the Halfman's arm off at the elbow. _This man must be fearless!_

* * *

Tarin's heart beat so hard and fast he feared it might explode before the Myrddraal had the chance to cut it out. Sweat stung his eyes and his stomach threatened to fill his helmet with sick. _Creator save me._

Weeks of hard riding had taken Tarin from the familiar streets of Caemlyn to the northern territories of Arafel. After years of sifting through rumors about the disappearance of his father Tarin had found a credible tale of Luc Mantear attempting to cross the Mountains of Dhoom directly south of Shayol Ghul. The Arafellin merchant had thought the Andoran prince intended to make for Shayol Ghul by the shortest route possible. Bells rang as the Arafellin vigorously described how a Lord Luc had visited an inn in Shol Arbela. This Lord Luc claimed an Aes Sedai had predicted he'd find glory in the Blight, which he intended to find on the slopes of Shayol Ghul amongst the strewn bodies of Shadowspawn.

Tarin never thought he'd find his father, but maybe there was a chance he could learn of his father's fate. That quest was always going to take Tarin into the Blight. He had tried to steel himself against whatever he might find there, but he had not expected to run into Trollocs and Fades south of the Blight. Even this close to the Blight with Borderlanders' tales ringing in his head he hadn't been sure they even existed.

The Trollocs and Fades were attacking what appeared to be a small fort on a river bank. The Fades were in the rear staying out of bow range. Fire and earth erupted from within the Trolloc horde. _Thank the Light, an Aes Sedai!_ Some Trollocs attempted to flee but one of the Fades rode forth and chased them back to the fight. _When that Fade turns around they'll all know I'm here_. Tarin heeled his horse into a sprint.

As he neared the Fades Tarin lowered the point of his lance and cried, "Moridin! Dyu ninte concion ca'lyet ye!" The nearest Fade's sword appeared in its hand faster than Tarin's eyes could follow. As the creature's horse turned to face this new enemy the Fade's gaze swept over Tarin. Tarin's breath froze. His thoughts shattered as he saw the face of a Myrddraal for the first time. _No eyes! How can it not have eyes?_ Chance brought the point of Tarin's lance into the Fade's chest as much as skill or intention. The Fade tipped off the back of its horse and Tarin's lance broke under the strain. The shower of splinters snapped Tarin back to reality. In an instant his heron-marked sword was in his hand. An elegant weapon with a long curving blade, sharpened on one side. He lashed out and felt the slightest resistance as the blade severed the head of the next Fade, then he was turning away and creating distance between him and the others.

Tarin had the best trained horse in Andor, maybe the Westlands. He'd paid a king's ransom for the fastest mare in Tear. Wind Dancer, he named her. Tarin had taught her to respond to the slightest pressure from knee, calf, or heel. While other mounted warriors preferred stallions that charged into their enemies kicking and biting, Tarin's horse danced circles around the heavier horses of his enemies. Horse and rider acted as one. Wind Dancer leapt forward as Tarin exchanged cuts and thrusts with the Fades and danced away whenever more than one got close. The Fades were fast as vipers and every time Tarin checked a blow by one of those black swords the impact threatened to tear his sword from his grasp. For a moment fear crept back. Surprise was no longer on his side and Wind Dancer would tire if she kept this up much longer. One Fade suddenly charged forward, its sword high overhead to deliver a powerful blow. A twitch of Tarin's knee brought Wind Dancer a half step closer to the Fade as he brought his sword up to block. The blade caught the Fade right behind its elbow, arm and sword alike fell to the ground. Another stroke and the Fades' head nearly toppled off.

Tarin raced away from the two remaining Fades and whipped Wind Dancer around to face his enemies. Behind the Fades he saw the Trolloc horde in chaos. Most were dead or dying on the ground, the others scattering. Light flashed nearby and a roar like thunder rattled Tarin's teeth. Wind Dancer nearly threw him from the saddle as she started from the blast, and Tarin instinctively threw an arm over his eyes as pieces of Fade began falling around him. _One left. Attack!_ Prepared to heel Wind Dancer forward Tarin lowered his arm. The Fade was nearly on him. The sword stroke would have cloven Tarin in two, but as the Fade made the strike Wind Dancer reared. Tarin watched the blade bury deep into her neck as he slid off the back of his saddle. He rolled away from his dying horse and brought his sword to bear expecting the Fade to charge once again. Instead he was shocked to see the Fade fleeing for the forest, its sword stuck fast in Wind Dancer's neck.

Tarin slowly regained his feet as he watched the Fade fleeing. The Fade seemed to vanish the instant it reached the shadows of the tree line. The remaining Fades thrashed on the ground nearby. None made to stand or attack and Tarin believed them to be dead or dying. Turning back to the village Tarin found himself staring into the eyes of a Trolloc only ten paces away. The creature held a crude bow at full draw, a viciously tipped arrow nearly as large as a small spear pointed directly at Tarin. The bow made a heavy sounding twang as the Trolloc released the arrow. Tarin brought his blade up in a sweeping block but too late. His backplate must have stopped the arrow. A full pace of arrow shaft wide as his thumb protruded from under his collar bone. Tarin's chin came to rest on the shaft when he looked down. He coughed into his hand. Foaming pink spittle covered the palm of his glove. Tarin was vaguely aware of the Trolloc knocking another arrow.

Tarin smiled and managed a few last words between gurgling breathes, "Moridin, dyu ninte concion ca'lyet ye." Gathering the last of his strength he sprinted toward the Trolloc just as the beast started to draw its bow once again. The Trolloc arrow in his chest almost caught Tarin's blade as he slid through The Heron Spreads Its Wings. The Trolloc's bow split in half and a spray of hot dark blood covered Tarin as the creature fell to the ground.

Tarin collapsed atop the Trolloc.

* * *

Bogdan saw the Trolloc ranks begin to break as the third Myrddraal fell to the mystery warrior. The Warder dropped from the roof and cried, "Prepare to open the gates!" With a sharp whistle the Warder's heavyset stallion came running. Before Bogdan could get his foot in his stirrup Tamsin caught his arm.

"You bloody ox of a thimble-brained man. Where do you think you're going?"

Bogdan jerked his arm free. "For a stroll," he replied. Before the Aes Sedai could respond the Warder was in his saddle and spurring toward the gate. The stallion reached full sprint before making the gate. The villagers guarding the gate had barely opened the doors far enough for a rider to get through when Bogdan reached the opening. He charged through sword in hand. Trollocs fell left and right as he chopped his way free of the mass near the palisade. Leaping the moat he pulled hard on the stallion's reins and turned the beast toward the lone warrior. He nearly lost his mount as the stallion stumbled over the arrow-ridden body of a Trolloc.

Through his bond Bogdan felt Tamsin Sedai's frustration vanish in a wave of determination and concentration. Ahead one of the Myrddraal exploded under the force of a lightning strike, pieces flying in all directions. In the same instant the other Myrddraal sprang forward and nearly took the head off the lone warrior's mount. The blade must have lodged in the horse's spine because the Myrddraal let the blade go and spurred his horse toward the safety of the trees. Trollocs were fleeing in all directions. Bogdan watched in horror as one of the Shadowspawn, still a hundred paces from the warrior, raised its bow and fired an arrow into the warrior's chest from point-blank range.

The Warder's roar was wordless and guttural. He spurred his stallion faster but the horse was already giving everything he had. To Bogdan's amazement the warrior was able to close the distance to the Trolloc. He recognized The Heron Spreads Its Wings as the warrior cut down the Trolloc before collapsing.

* * *

Tarin was waiting for death to take him when a figure appeared above. The figure's face was shadowed and its body seemed to fade into the sky above. "Are you the Creator?" Tarin asked. The figure knelt and Tarin was sure he heard music somewhere in the distance ringing like a thousand tiny bells.

"No," answered a voice thick with the accent of Arafel.

Tarin felt himself floating into the sky, the slightest sensation of arms lifting him. Vaguely he was aware of coming to rest with something under him. A horse he thought. _Wind Dancer?_ _No,_ he thought. _She's gone now._

"A heron-marked blade is an excellent weapon for fighting Myrddraal," the mysterious figure stated. "Bloody useless against archers. You should get yourself a shield."

**998 NE, Adar 19****th**

The men of the Queen's Guard broke camp an hour before dawn. The eastern sky showed only the faintest hint of grey light when the column took to the road again. The men had picked up on Tarin's mood. The specifics of their mission were still a secret to them, but they knew now that it was serious. Their procession was somber. Tarin picked up on a feeling of resignation coming from the men. They realized fighting was possible now and were prepared to die for Queen and Andor. Tarin hoped that would not be necessary.

The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Market Sheran came into view. Every surface glittered like diamonds in the morning light. Tarin couldn't remember seeing frost this late in the year. Spring was too long coming, but that was not his concern. Market Sheran was too quiet.

Most people would just be waking at this hour, but some should already be up and starting chores. The sound of swords loosening in scabbards told Tarin his men had noticed as well. "Bogdan, take four men and take the right. Under- Lieutenant Oren, take four men and the left. Engage only if attacked first and avoid killing if at all possible. I want to know what's wrong here."

The remaining men tightened up formation behind Tarin, no longer a column but a narrow wedge. Tarin's shield hung slung across his back. The shield was large but not overly heavy. A smaller man would have trouble using the shield for any significant amount of time, but to Tarin the weight felt natural. The shield was as wide as his sword was long, slightly concave, and built from strips of wood as wide as his thumb plated with a thin layer of steel bearing the Anvil of House Mantear. The size and shape of the shield made swordplay somewhat awkward and was not nearly as useful as the more popular heater and kite shields for swordplay. However, it provided great defense and total cover from melee or ranged attack. The shield was certainly more useful for stopping arrows than a sword.

With a deep breath Tarin heeled his horse and led the way into town. No whispers floated out from windows. No shutters opened or closed. No faces peered from windows, and no guards came running to challenge them. The village seemed dead. _What happened to everyone coming to see the False Dragon_, Tarin wondered. There should be some sign of life. Tarin spotted the village inn and scowled. A dark Dragon's Fang adorned the door. He reined up short of the building and dismounted. He handed the reins to the Guardsman behind him and strode to the door. Four loud bangs with a gauntleted fist announced his arrival. Stepping back he placed his hand on the hilt of his longsword and prepared for whatever might be coming.

The door opened just far enough for a man to peer out. His hair was unkempt and he wore a worried, almost fearful, expression. When he saw his visitor wore the uniform of the Queen's Guard the man's demeanor lightened noticeably. The door opened fully and a stout, jowly innkeeper wearing a white apron emerged. He smiled amiably enough but wrung his hands nervously and seemed poised to duck back inside the inn at a moment's notice. He eyed the three golden knots on Tarin's armor as though unsure what they meant. "Lieutenant? How may I be of service?"

Tarin sighed. "It's captain. My lord will suffice. I don't care which. What happened here? I don't have much time. Answer quickly and tell me everything."

"Darkfriends, my lord." The innkeeper seemed to almost gag on the word. Tarin had no doubt the innkeeper believed what he said. "Two days past we had visitors in the inn. A young man entered and began questioning them. He called himself Paitr, but I don't think that's his real name. Anyway, it wasn't just a few moments before one of my guests – a lanky brown haired boy, seemed like he mighten have got into his cups the night before - accused this Paitr of being a Darkfriend. I thought for sure they were all going to pull knives and have at it, my lord. They argued for a moment. I heard them mention Four Kings I did. The lanky fellow and his friend – a tall red-haired boy – tried to leave and this Paitr tried to stop them. They had a small scuffle and the two boys ran out of the inn, Paitr shouting behind them about 'the Great Lord of the Dark is stronger and the Shadow swallow you all' or some such. Scared me right to my bones it did. The town hasn't been the same since. That night someone scrawled this," he nodded toward the Dragon's Fang, "on my door. Haven't had a customer since. Tried to scrub it off I did, but nothing I tried worked. Gonna have to replace the whole door, my lord."

When he was done the innkeeper looked as though he'd just run a mile. Sweat soaked his shirt and his breathing came in heavy rasps. Tarin handed the man a few coins from his pouch without bothering to check what he grabbed. The pouch contained silver and gold. From the look on the innkeeper's face it was enough to cover the cost of a door, two days of lost custom, and a deal more as well. "I can spare some men to keep the peace."

"Thank the Light, my lord."

Tarin mounted his horse and called, "Outriders! To me!" Bogdan and Oren approached from the fringes of the town, their men trailing behind. "Under-Lieutenant Oren, you are to remain here with your men for two days then continue east and try to catch us. We shouldn't be hard to catch. I'll give you some gold. Ride hard and purchase fresh horses if necessary."

The young Guardsman acknowledged the order with a salute then ordered the innkeeper to stable his men's horses and prepare a meal. _That one will be a captain one day._ Tarin was sure of it. Tarin raised his voice to command volume and ordered, "Guardsman, form column." Without waiting for acknowledgement or action he heeled his horse east. Before they exited the village the remaining Guardsman were in perfect formation.

Market Sheran was still within bow range behind them when Tarin faced Bogdan. "I have orders you will like. Take off that burnished armor and gaudy red undercoat. I want you in woolens, leathers, and that cloak of yours riding scout for us. One of the men can pack your uniform for now."

The Arafellin grinned at the order. "Aye, Captain. What should I keep an eye out for? Darkfriends? Whitecloaks?" The emphasis he placed on Whitecloaks told how much he hoped for the later.

"You remember that wagon yesterday? You thought the boy in the back was an Aielman." The man nodded. "I think those two boys have Darkfriends chasing them. The innkeeper described two boys very much like them having an encounter with a Darkfriend named Paitr in his common room. That's what had the town on edge."

"Blood and bloody ashes. I'll get to it, Captain." Suddenly the man had the look of a Warder again. He hadn't even unclasped his breastplate yet but there it was. The anger and vengefulness Bogdan had worn on his sleeve since Caemlyn was replaced by a calm, cool confidence. He was no longer the smoldering coal but something more akin to a steel-tipped arrow on a taunt bow string. All he needed was a target.

"Bogdan, I know the bond is broken, but do you still have the gifts?"

"They fade, Captain, but yes."

"Stay out tonight. Once we make camp I want you to circle outward from the camp. Avoid any farms or villages. Go as far as you can but be back before we break camp." The Warder's gaze seemed to measure Tarin and his words both. Tarin couldn't tell what the man was thinking at all, but Tarin thought he detected the slightest expression of concern. The Warder nodded. Moments later a man in a color-shifting cloak vanished into the wilderness north of the road. It may have been his imagination but Tarin thought the mood of the Queen's Guards eased just a little. Tarin had to admit, having a Warder for your scout certainly boosted one's confidence.


End file.
